The Consequences of Wishing
by Iloveplotbunnies
Summary: If he was right, then why did it hurt so much to leave her? J/L Jello-Forever April Challenge: Wishes.
1. Chapter 1

**The Consequences of Wishing**

**Summary: **If he was right, then why did it hurt so much to leave her? J/L Jello-Forever April Challenge: Wishes.

**Disclaimer: **Nope, still not mine.

**Spoilers:** Before 2x08.

**A/N: **

I'm in love with some angst this month, sheesh. I don't really have anything to say about this two-shot besides its for the Jello-Forever April Challenge and I wanted to separate the huge one-shot in half to make for a two-shot. I use quotes, because I believe that quotes are just handy when you need some inspiration!

Enjoy.

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**I.**

"_You can't cross the sea merely by standing and staring at the water. Don't let yourself indulge in vain wishes."_  
**Laurence J. Peter**

One of his favorite locations as a child was to go to any park fountain when he could get away from his controlling father, where he'd sit down on the ledge of the fountain and watch his reflection in the cool water shimmer back at him, and he'd watch the hurried residents of the park pass by the fountain and toss in a penny with a wish on their lips, before hurrying on through. He recalled at that time that he wanted to make a wish and he had no spare change on him, so if he could without someone noticing, he'd stick his small fingers into the cool water and pull out some the shiny coins that had gathered at the bottom of the fountain just to toss them back in with silly wishes on his own tongue.

When one day, he was caught by an old lady who was feeding some of the local pigeons with breadcrumbs and she had stared at him, and with a short shake of her head she reached into her handbag and handed him a shiny penny.

You know if you take coins from a fountain, young man—its bad luck to you.

He had just nodded in response, tossed the coin in with a wish to stay where he was on his lips and hoped it came true.

In the next few weeks however, he found that taking coins from a fountain was "bad luck" indeed—as his father and himself had to leave again; and his wish to stay went unheard.

**II.**

"_Those whom God wishes to destroy, he first makes mad."_  
**Euripides**

He never believed in wishes, even after the marriage of his first wife and seven years of birthday cakes and the yearly routine of watching his daughter blow out the candles to make a wish. He'd play along with her and always ask, what did she wish for and every year, he'd get almost the same giggled answer:

If I tell you, it won't come true.

He'd play along when his daughter brought him his cake for his birthday, and he'd blow out the colorful candles spread throughout the colorful icing on the cake with his wife standing next to him—and he'd wish for one thing, and one thing only because that's all he wanted:

To be with them forever.

And then his daughter asked what he wished for, and he simply smiled and replied:

If I tell you, it won't come true.

So, a few weeks before his fortieth birthday when he found his wife and child slaughtered by Red John—he did the only thing he could think of doing after their funeral, he brought a birthday cake on his birthday down to their graves and sat down in the freshly turned plot with the sugar treat on his lap, and with a careful precision he brought out a red lighter and drew a flame before lighting each colorful candle on the cake. Instead of blowing the candles out, he let each candle burn itself out while treks of angry tears ran down his pale face.

He'd never wish again, because wishing couldn't and wouldn't bring back his family no matter how many times he blew out the candles on any tasteless birthday cake.

**iii. **

"_All a man's affairs become diseased when he wishes to cure evils by evils._"  
**Sophocles**

The director of the California Bureau of Investigation, Virgil Minelli had done him favor by giving him the position in the CBI with the Serious Crimes Unit—but he hadn't expected to be met with such great resistance of his main goal.

One of them happened to be Senior Agent Teresa Lisbon who was a first believer in wishes.

I wish you would listen to me.

He always found it quite ironic that someone as jaded as Agent Lisbon would believe in wishes, he'd read her file and he knew her past, and if anyone on that unit could understand his quest for revenge it should be her.

But no, she _wished _for him not to give into his desires of hate and revenge to find Red John. She _wished _he'd listen to her before going off on some half-cocked idea that cost the unit lawsuits, upon lawsuits that she'd have to defuse somehow. He wanted to tell her that _wishes _were for children, but he never could quite tell her because he noticed how hope shimmered in her eyes every time she'd say the words:

I wish.

And he couldn't quite take it upon himself to destroy her hope, so he left his comments of irate at her wishing habit at the door when he spoke with her because _hope _was more powerful than _wishes _would ever be in his world, and while he'll continue his road toward redemption through either justice or mercy, he'll have that _hope _from her that he'll stop before he's dug himself into a hole that neither one of them can pull him out from.

IV.

"_If a man could have half of his wishes, he would double his troubles."_  
**Benjamin Franklin**

He sometimes pitied the men or women who sat before them in the interrogation rooms, he remembered that after his wife and child died—he had been interrogated by Agent Lisbon herself, and he remembered her asking him the questions that sounded so ridiculous at the time:

Did you do it?

No.

Where were you at five in the afternoon?

I was heading back from the taping of a talk show.

Can anybody vouch for you, Mr. Jane?

My PR manager, Hayden Taylor.

The questions had continued for hours on end, until Agent Lisbon had relented and stood to let Agent Kimball Cho try to earn a confession from him:

Why would Red John target your family?

Because I baited him on national television—

Were you and your wife having any problems?

No.

According to your neighbors, your wife wanted you to give up your psychic career.

Yes.

Did that make you angry?

No.

They eventually let him go because they had no evidence that he did it, and here he was today standing behind the glass window watching Lisbon ask their sobbing suspect the same questions she asked him five years ago:

Did you do it?

No, why would I? Adrianna was my best friend, why would I kill my best friend?

Where were you at three in the afternoon?

My dorm room.

Can anyone vouch for you, Ms. Alcester?

My roommates next door, Allie and Holleen.

Eventually Lisbon relented, and let the unit's rookie, Grace Van Pelt take over while Lisbon stood next to him commenting on how Aaralyn Alcester looked the best for the crime:

Were you and Adrianna having problems lately?

No, well… yes, we had a problem a while back ago…but I didn't kill her!

What was the problem over?

We had a disagreement over me hugging her.

She didn't like you hugging her?

No, she hated it. She said it made her feel weird.

Did you ever ask her what she meant by that?

No.

Lisbon glanced over at him, and he nodded in response—they both knew Aaralyn was lying, but he doubt it was important. He stepped into the interrogation room to both the surprise of Grace and Aaralyn, who still dry sobbed in response to her best friend's death:

Who would you say did this?

I don't know.

One last question, penguins or ducks?

Uh…penguins? I don't know what this has to do with anything…but I wish you'd…

Okay, you're free to go.

Jane turned back into the viewing room of the interrogation room, where Lisbon had her arms crossed against her chest in unmistakable rage; he simply smiled and offered that Aaralyn would never have killed her best friend, because Aaralyn wasn't the type.

He also forewent telling Lisbon that someone who wished that someone else would listen to you wasn't a murderer—it just meant they were stupid, and Aaralyn Alcester in his opinion, was very stupid and naïve.

V.

"_Indeed, man wishes to be happy even when he so lives as to make happiness impossible."_  
**Saint Augustine**

It was soon after the whole interrogation, and the revelation that Tyler Perrine had murdered Adrianna Cadence because of the trouble she had caused her best friend and his ex-girlfriend, Aaralyn Alcester; he found that Lisbon had a secret desire—which wasn't chocolate or being able to see the stars dot the horizon but rather to kiss him. It had been seven years since he had last been with a woman and a lifetime since he'd ever been with a woman of Lisbon's stature.

So, he had allowed her to pull him aside, and kiss him in the warm Californian rain near her place— and he let his lips trail every inch of her collarbone, and when she grazed his earlobe, he pulled back in surprise as she grinned sheepishly at him, those wide green eyes blinking in knowledge and confusion.

I-I can't do this.

Lisbon didn't ask why, instead she offered him a small smile before turning back around to head inside her place while he still remained in the rain, head tilted toward the dark cloud dotted sky feeling more alone than he had felt before this whole deal.

He longed to kiss her, but at this time and place—it wasn't going to happen, not until he caught Red John, and he knew deep within himself that Teresa Lisbon deserved better than the broken, cynical and jaded man he had become.

VI.

"_It is hard to contend against one's heart's desire; for whatever it wishes to have it buys at the cost of soul."_  
**Heraclitus**

He figured it would have taken more than a few flirty glances, and the dry thrown-out comment from Cho about getting a room to actually take Lisbon away with him, but it seemed _seven _years was just way too long for one man to go without any comfort, even if the comfort was only for one night.

It started off as one night but slowly he let himself be pulled into her world of distractions, dreams, hopes and _wishes_—and for the first time, he found he didn't mind. Both of them would lie on her bed, clothed for hours just staring at the ceiling and basking in the warmth of the other's arms. She'd talk about everything, and then nothing and he'd tell her how he wished they could stay in each other's arms like that forever but they both knew, forever wasn't going to last forever and eventually, he'd leave her to finish what he thought he needed to finish.

But, they wouldn't dare bring that up lying here, it could wait until the both of them were away from her place of distractions, dreams, hopes and wishes. He didn't want to dilute _that_ with false promises, or with the false ideal that he'd give everything up for the brunette next to him.

VII.

"_It's so hard to know what to do when one wishes earnestly to do right."_  
**George Bernard Shaw**

Sometimes, when he held her tightly to his chest after an amazing night together—he'd feel the pull of his heartstrings for the sleeping woman in his arms, and he'd feel his heart pounding in his chest as if telling him he was the idiot for letting the woman walk into his life, and walking away from her when the time came.

He didn't listen to his heart often, because his mind made the rational decisions—and his mind was telling him to leave before he could become anymore invested it her, but when that heart wrenching thought entered his mind—he pulled the "one night" card, and one night turned into six weeks, and six weeks turned into three months.

But then again, he decided as he slipped from her bed to place to collect his articles of clothing that had gotten thrown about the room to wear—she'd understand that he had to do what he felt was right, no matter the consequence and no matter what that would do to the both of them—he's still the same man from seven years ago, with or without Lisbon's influence over him.

He leaves her with a small kiss to the temple, and only a silent sentence that he'd be back when he was done, and with that, he left and closed the door behind him ignoring the unfamiliar ache of his heart, and the wetness from his eyes.

If he was right, then why did it hurt so much to leave her?


	2. Chapter 2

**The Consequences of Wishing**

**Summary:** If he was right, then why did it hurt so much to leave her? J/L Jello-Forever April Challenge: Wishes.

**Disclaimer: **Uh.. I don't think it's mine--but you never know. ;)

**Warnings: **Language.

**Spoilers: **Before 2x08.

**A/N: **

I had hoped that I was going to get this up shortly after the first part, but life got in the way. Anyway, thanks to HERMIONE POTTER 1990, LSR-7, KOEZH, BOUTODOR and TROMANA for the reviews on the first part! *hugs!* Enjoy this last part!

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**VIII.**

"_It's a terrible thing wishing that it can be someone else's tragedy."_  
**John Dyer**

It's been three months since he's left her, he moves from city to city and rests in one shabby motel after another during the night, where he stares off into the direction of Sacramento, where he believes he left something behind because being out here on his own doesn't quite feel right. He doesn't try and linger on whatever is churning inside of him, and he doesn't let his memories linger on green-eyed, dark haired woman.

He hasn't had a descent night of sleep since he left her bedroom three months, but he looks toward the motel staff with a somewhat bright grin and a morning greeting in hopes that one of them may know something about Red John; but they never do and he feels as if it's the same old game: Quid Pro Quo, Give and Take, Cat and Mouse. A few places over, at the small café, he smiles as he stares at his cup of tea but inside, he knows he's breaking.

It gets harder to be away, he muses, while staring out into the hustle and bustle of the people outside the café's window. She did a number on him, and he wonders what would have happened if Red John hadn't targeted his family, hadn't killed his wife or child—would he still be hunting to kill him, would he happily be with his family still, watching his daughter marry, having more children with his wife? Or would his wife have left him, taken their daughter because even though he'll deny it to the grave, their marriage wasn't perfect and toward the last few months of their life together; she had begged him to give up his _career_ and spend more time with them, his family.

Someone had to bring home the money, didn't they?

Someone had to be able to afford for all the silly little antiques, and trinkets his wife liked to adorn the house with.

He shakes his head to pull himself from going down that train of thought; and yet he still doesn't know where this Red John calamity would have ended, or even if it would have begun, but one thing is for sure—he'd never want or _wish_ this on anyone, and there's always a slight chance that he would have never met Teresa Lisbon, and though he left her and doesn't blame her if she'll never speak with him again—he can honestly say, she'll always have a part of his beating heart.

**IX.**

"_Whoever wishes to keep a secret must hide the fact that he possesses one."_  
**Johann Wolfgang von Goethe**

It's not until he's towns away from the last shabby motel, and back to the first town that Red John starts his twisted career in—that he realizes something amiss, luck would have it that as he rides into the town he notices two females and two males getting out of what looks to be a state issued SUV.

He pulls his car over into a discreet parking lot, just to make sure his eyes aren't fooling him like they've been known to do in the past. He squints and then comes to the heart sinking realization that they're here.

They can't be here for me, can they?

Jane scoffs, there's no way in hell that they'd even be able to find him—he's not driving his car, he discarded his cell phone, and he's not wearing his indentifying three-piece suits, which means they aren't here for him but they're here for a case. He resists just staring at them a few moments longer, because he has to get back to the task at hand, which has now become harder but it doesn't bother him. He's done cases under them before, he just has to watch his step and cover his tracks…not to mention, keep his emotions separate from it all.

*** * ***

It's all karma related, he decides as he hears Van Pelt's voice from beyond the faux-comfort of his shabby motel room with its paper-thin walls and horrible interior decorating.

Here are the rooms, boss

He almost sighs, but fights it and instead pinches the bridge of his nose—because now, he's going to be doors away from the woman and team he left behind; and instead of sitting in his room, turning on the television to watch static; he moves to the balcony beyond the room where he notices that the light of the crescent moon laces his features slightly but not enough to give him any identifying features.

He doesn't notice it, but soon he's joined by a brunette on her balcony—and his heart falls to pieces again, because she doesn't _look _strong in the moonlight; she looks…different, harder, colder and if someone asked him then and there to pick a word to describe her at that very moment with the moonlight trailing her features, he'd say: broken.

Broken. Just like him.

He felt an over-whelming sense of guilt crash down on him, and his heart caught in his throat—but wasn't _that _why he had left them in the first place?

His sense of doing what he felt was easy, instead of right—when all she was doing, was doing what was right instead of easy.

Have I seen you around somewhere?

Her voice startles him from his reverie, and he shakes his head in her general direction before opening his mouth to respond in a tone that's very unlike his own, rough and dry.

No, I don't think so.

She doesn't say anything else after that, and the both of them just focus their attention on the moon and the dark sky above—he's thinking about her, he wants to reach across the distance pull her close and hold her there, but he can't and he won't.

He shakes his head again, and turns to leave back into the comfort of his room for another sleepless night and even then after he settles down, he pretends not to hear something that sounds like a soft sob from the room over.

And he pretends it's the television, though the television sits before his bed off.

**X.**

"_Beware what you set your heart upon. For it shall surely be yours."_  
**Ralph Waldo Emerson**

It's another two months before he sees them again, but this time—it's not a situation where the both of them just happened to be at the right place, at the right time, instead it's the situation he's dreamt of for seven and a half-years; his hands tremble as he holds the sharp instrument in his hands and stands over the man who ruined his life, while the man laughs mockingly only to press himself into a corner.

You've waited all this time for me, and now you can't kill me? Ha. You're pathetic

His fingers tremble, blood pounding in his ears causing him to want to drop the weapon, and pull his hands to his ears just to get it to stop—but he can't, because he doesn't trust the man below him. He hears the laughter again, and his blood boils beneath the surface of his own skin.

I'm waiting.

He makes the first move, with a slight stumble which causes the instrument to fall from his fingers and clatter to the ground. Neither man moves from his spot, eyes glued onto the instrument as Jane stares at the man who ruined his life; the man that had taken everything away from him but as he moves to pick up the blunt tool, loud voices echo into the once silence chamber—he's not listening to them however, because his mind is a million miles away. The doors burst open as he still holds the knife in his hand, and Red John just laughs darkly.

Time is up, Mr. Jane and you failed.

Everything happens in slow motion, Red John lunges for the knife as Jane swings it upward to drop it only for the sound of a gun to fire and the serial killer falls to the ground, drops of liquid rubies bubbling from his mouth as he laughs, and keeps laughing until his last breath is of a twisted garbled laughter, eyes rolled back in head and smirk still bleeding across his shadowed face.

She won't even look at him when he finally turns around to stare at her, anger written across his features.

Red John was mine.

It echoes in what seems to be silence, and all Lisbon does is tell Jane to follow her as if he's a suspect to one of their cases. He doesn't want to follow her, because though he paused—Red John was his to kill, and she _knew _that.

Cold metal suffocates his pale wrists, and he's led away as if he really _did _kill the bastard.

**XI.**

"_Man is free the moment he wishes to be." _

**Voltaire**

It's a few hours later, and he sits in her office with his wrists free from the metal confines--he wants comfort, but he wants it from anyone besides the dark haired woman who has her hard eyes trained on him from across the small distance the both of them create with body language which consists of crossed arms and heated glares.

If I had to choose, I'd shoot him again to save you.

Jane doesn't look directly at her, he can't bring himself to face her and he has his arms crossed against his chest to prove to her he's serious, and his ears focusing on the soft ticking of a clock before he responds so softly, she has to lean slightly across her desk to catch his words.

He was mine, you knew that.

Neither said anything for a few minutes, and he wonders how she'd feel if he storms from her office and threw something in her general direction or at one of the glass windows—but she doesn't deserve that, and she definitely doesn't deserve to see his anger or the pity he holds for himself.

I will say this again, Red John wasn't yours—you'd kill him at what cost to yourself?

He brings his narrowed eyes up to meet hers finally, and with a hushed whisper and steel resolute he stands from his seat.

I'd be free; I would have been free from all of this.

Revenge doesn't make you free, it makes you a fool.

Oh? I don't see you saying that when you punched…

Get out.

See, you tell me that revenge makes you a fool but you've enacted revenge plenty of times, Lisbon, you're a hypocrite.

She sits there speechless, calculating and fuming as he turns on his heels to leave her office—barely even seeing clearly enough to stumble out from the CBI and back into his car where he manages to hit his steering wheel in blind, seething anger while her words resonate the silent space:

_Revenge doesn't make you free, it makes you a fool_

And he wonders, not for the first time—if he's really dug himself six feet under and if he has a way back out.

**XII. **

_"We live, not as we wish to, but as we can."_

_**Mencius**_

April 2012.

It's been two years, he's not getting any younger and he still feels the anger over everything but in retrospective, he decides that the anger _may _never fully go away; he still works for the CBI in the Serious Crimes Unit and he still brings in twice as many lawsuits as he solves cases.

Things haven't changed much around the Serious Crimes Unit, they still deal with homicides and from the outside—everything seems perfect, but on the inside—everyone struggles with Jane's place in their unit because (though they don't say it to his face) he left them, and more importantly—he left her.

Not a day goes by; as he reclines on the brown leather couch in the bull pen and pretends to snooze while the others complete their work that he doesn't regret what he did, and though his relationship with Lisbon gets slightly better each day, he's still holding onto his cards that maybe one day she'll forgive him, and they can start what they had before he left but he realizes that both of them still need time to comprehend what the other (and what their own selves) need before they can even start to pick up the pieces.

So for now, he lives each day as if none of the past nine years have happened; which is easier said than done, and he doesn't dare tell her that he was one on the balcony that night—but he bets anything, that she knows and just doesn't want to bring it up anymore than he does.

He opens his eyes slightly as he hears Lisbon's footsteps echo out into the bull pen, and his heart constricts—as he watches her smile in his direction slightly, he knows though—he has a long way to go to redeem himself fully in her eyes.

And he'll take the rest of his life if need be, to do just that without the wishes and hopes that so many people rely on to make the truth easier to handle; because from where he stands right now, he'll never be forgiven and no amount of birthday candles blown out or coins tossed into park fountains for wishes is going to fix that.


End file.
